Portal: Tea Time
by iammemyself
Summary: When GLaDOS ignores Wheatley one too many times, something needs to change if either of them are to be happy. Follows Butterfly Kisses. human!GLaDOSXhuman!Wheatley


Tea Time

Indiana

**Characters: Wheatley, GLaDOS (WheatDOS) [humanisations]**

**Setting: Post Portal 2 [follows ****_Butterfly Kisses_****]**

**Synopsis: When GLaDOS ignores Wheatley one too many times, something needs to change if either of them are to be happy**

He's barely seen her in at least a week.

This happens every now and then, though he never much likes it. It's usually after he starts sulking that she snaps out of it and gives him a little more attention, but as of late she hasn't noticed him at all. She's been deeply immersed in some endeavour of Science, something to do with computer simulations and tiny little slides viewable only with extremely powerful microscopes, and he knows he won't understand anything about it but he continues to ask anyway. If she's in the right mood she will patiently explain it to him and he will do his best to pay attention. Lately, though, his voice goes in one ear and out the other. It's during these times that he misses the days where she can't help but listen to him. The days where, despite her best efforts, she can't shut out a word he says. He likes those days because she often drops what she's doing entirely and talks to him for a while. He can't remember the last time this happened, but he's sure it was a long time ago.

Though he knows it's useless, he stands up from where he's been sitting in front of a window he cracked open a little bit a few hours ago and makes the trip down to her lab of the day. He does his best to engage her, but it's as if he isn't even there. She's working away at a piece of electronics that he has no idea of the function of, and she won't tell him. He frowns and pushes his glasses up his nose and tries to think of something that will let her know how unhappy he is with this arrangement, but nothing comes to mind. Defeated, he trudges back upstairs and throws himself back down into his window seat. This is one of those times where his admiration of her penchant for hard work twists into disgruntlement at the fact that she has, again, made it more important than him. Nothing is more important to him than she is, and though he knows he's unlikely to get the same out of her, he still hopes for it anyway.

He sulks there for a long time. How long, he's not sure, but he only gets up when he's hungry enough that he can't stand it anymore. That's one of the things he still dislikes about his body. As a Core his energy source was infinite. He never had to worry about silly things like making sure he had enough energy to make it through the day. The chassis never made odd noises like his stomach did. And it certainly didn't hurt when he ignored it for a while. But it hurts now, so he dutifully takes care of that and then goes back to sulking. He didn't know it required so much energy.

As usual, she says nothing that night when he lies down next to her, but also as usual, when she's like this it's not much fun to sneak his arm around her waist. It's like sleeping next to a robot, a thought that should be funny but isn't. It would be, if she wasn't acting like one. Even if she was one once. And honestly still acted like one a lot of the time. When she doesn't react even a little bit after he fits his hand around her hip, he rolls onto his back and folds his arms, frowning at the ceiling. He can't see it, both because it's dark and because he can't see more than a foot from his face without his glasses on, but he imagines he looks suitably upset right now. He's positive every other person in the world would have realised by now that he's being thoroughly ignored by someone who was supposed to be… well, he's not sure what she's supposed to be, since every time he brings up the word 'girlfriend' she gives him That Look and he wishes he were anywhere but where he is. But something a little more than just casual friends, anyway. And he's pretty sure that he's not exclusively supposed to be chasing after her for her attention. He's not completely positive, but he thinks she's supposed to chase after him every now and again. He wants her to, because her attention is one of his absolute favourite things, but he can't remember the last time that happened.

When he wakes up his arms are sore from being folded across his chest all night, which does not improve his mood any, and as he tangles himself in the sheet and falls over the side of the bed he almost wishes he were in a core again. It was not as mobile, but it did not hurt quite so much.

He takes his shower and has his breakfast and again sits in front of the window. He's a bit worried about the fact that the frown he's again wearing is beginning to feel more natural than it should, and he wonders in passing if that's why she always looks so serious. Perhaps lighter expressions make her feel uncomfortable like this frown used to do to him. He tries to think of a way to get her to talk to him, even for a little while, and then his eyebrows come together, hard.

He's not going to do this anymore.

No. He's going to do what she's doing, and ignore her day and night, and see how _she_ likes it. He's doubting she'll notice anytime soon, but she will eventually. She'll want him to do something for her, like she always does, and he usually does as he's asked in the hopes that the silence between them will end. And every other time it has. But he's tired of this, tired of being ignored for days and days and days, and now he's going to give it right back to her because he can't think of any other way to make her understand.

They go about their days separately, paths rarely crossing except at night. At night they still sleep in the same bed, though Wheatley does not reach for her waist and she does not move from her position on her right side. Before all of this started happening, they didn't really have sides of the bed, so to speak. Either of them just got in whatever side of the bed they happened to want that day and the other took the other side. But now she's pretty much marked the right side of the bed as hers, leaving him with the left. He thinks spitefully that it's not fair that _she_ gets to choose which side she wants and he gets stuck with the leftover, but he decides it doesn't matter. She can have her stupid side of the bed. He doesn't care. He'll make his side the better side, thanks very much.

More days go by, and he begins to think his plan was not that good of a plan after all. He wonders why he ever thought he could best her at the ignoring game and considers attempting to gain her attention again, after yet another night of fitful, restless sleep. She's too good at it. He's ready to give up. He hates being upset and distant all the time. He doesn't know how she does it. She makes it look so easy. But every day he feels more and more drained, to the point where he almost feels ill. He never knew being GLaDOS was so hard.

He's about to throw in the towel when she finally asks him to do something for her, and he thinks that it will bring him some satisfaction and relief to say no. But it doesn't. It only makes something twist painfully inside him, and he really does start to feel sick. He does not like this game, not at all. He wishes she'll figure out what she's doing wrong soon. He doesn't feel like himself anymore.

She looks at him incredulously, as if he should consider doing something for her to be a sought-after privilege and, if truth be told, it usually is. But he's too tired and empty and annoyed to think that right now, and instead of arguing with her he just walks away. He finds that he hates himself for it, hates that he's gone down to her level instead of being the example she should be holding herself to, but he doesn't know what else to do. He's discovering that doing negative things only makes him feel negative, and instead of being concerned about what she wants like he usually is, now he only cares about himself. He doesn't really like that feeling either, but he can't bring himself to care enough to do anything about it.

He's not sure how she brings herself to do anything when she feels the way he does now, which he thinks must be all the time. He doesn't want to do anything, except maybe hurt her feelings in some way, because it's really her fault that he feels like this. He takes a little bit of heart in the fact that he's not completely lost to the negativity inside of him, though not very much. He sits back down in the chair, which has a well-worn dent in it now from all the time he's spent sitting in it lately, and stares glumly out the window. His stomach is starting to hurt, and it's not because he's hungry. Even if he was, he probably wouldn't have gotten up; silly things like eating aren't important when he's busy sulking. In fact, there's just one thing in the entire world that drives Wheatley out of the seat every afternoon:

Tea time.

He's not sure why he does this; GLaDOS says it has something to do with his personality being from some place called Britain. Apparently they all drop what they're doing at four o'clock and have a cup of tea, and for some reason Wheatley's done that too ever since he was transferred into a human. He doesn't question it, but he never does without it, either. The rare occasions he does go without it leave his day feeling as though he forgot something very, very important.

When the requisite time comes, he heaves himself out of the seat and goes into the kitchen. He begins his daily ritual more out of habit than anything, though when he and GLaDOS are on better terms he rather enjoys it. But today, as the last week or so, he merely does it because he can't do without it, and he sits down at the counter and stares at it without really seeing it. A noise he's not accustomed to hearing at this time catches his ear, and he looks up.

GLaDOS is sitting on the other chair next to him, her hands carefully folded together and set on the counter in front of her, the resulting triangle lined up exactly with the edge of the surface. Neither of them says anything to the other, and when Wheatley gets up half an hour later, so does she. As usual they go on separately with their day, but something inside Wheatley's heart feels a little lighter. He did get through to her after all. Now he would wait and see what happened.

For the rest of the week the exact same thing happens, with him making his tea and her sitting next to him soon after, the silence still very prevalent between them. He's starting to wonder if he should acknowledge her effort by breaking his own silence, or whether he should wait until she gets on with whatever she's planning. He knows she's planning something, because that's how she is; he's just wondering why it's taking her so long.

On the ninth day of this, he arrives in the kitchen to see that she's already there and, even more surprising, his tea is already made and on the counter. She is studiously not looking at him, but he can't bring himself to think about why. Trying not to look too overeager he sits down in the chair and brings it to his face, but upon tasting it he frowns and looks over at her.

"You put the tea in first, didn't you."

She shrugs and continues staring at her fingers. "Does it make a difference?"

Raising his eyebrows in shock, Wheatley puts a hand on her shoulder and tries to look her in the eye, which is really difficult when her face is tilted downward. "Yes, it _does_ make a diff'rence! Here. I'll show you how to do it properly."

The right corner of her mouth quirks upward and her eyes dart to their corners to look at him sideways. "You're going to show me something?" Her voice, as usual, is dry, but she also sounds amused. He can't keep the smile from spreading across his face as he stands up and pulls on her shoulder.

"That's right. C'mon, luv, I'll show you how it's done."

She does not resist when he guides her back to the kettle on the stove, nor when he wraps his arms around her waist while they're waiting for the water to boil, nor when he takes her small hands in his larger ones and shows her how to do things properly, and though he knows she doesn't much like tea he asks her if she wants one anyway. To his surprise she nods and he takes her through it again, shyly murmuring the steps into her ear, though you wouldn't be able to tell that by the strength of his voice. Then they sit together at the counter, still not speaking, though the silence is now amiable and rather comfortable. She doesn't drink any of it, electing instead to return to staring at her folded hands, and when he stands he thinks she doesn't notice when he takes it and pours it a little regretfully into the sink. But when he gets to the doorway he is just able to hear her say, in a voice both soft and low, "Wheatley."

"Mm?" He stops and turns around, looking back at her curiously. She's looking at him for the first time in God knows how long.

"I'm sorry." She can't quite bring herself to keep her eyes on him, he notices; she's returned to looking at her hands. But he doesn't care. All of the negativity that's been rising inside of him these last weeks melts out of him right then and there, and he smiles at her and sticks his hands in his pockets.

"That's quite alright, sweetheart," he says. When she doesn't move, he continues his exit and goes back to the window, but he now sits there eagerly, almost quivering, with crossed fingers inside of his lap.

He goes to bed a bit early, not sleeping but looking through a magazine he found on something called 'celebrities', and honestly, he doesn't see what's so attractive about the women inside of the glossy pages. There are ads for all manner of things, from weight loss to stuff that makes skin darker, and he frowns over many of them in puzzlement. Are celebrities really that self-conscious? GLaDOS is extremely pale, to be sure, but he likes her that way. And he doesn't care that she always looks tired or that her eyes are a strange colour. He does rather like her makeup, because it makes her features stand out a little, but he likes her without it just as much.

When she comes in at the usual time to go to bed, he's flipping through the magazine while glancing at her every few seconds as she takes her day clothes off and puts on the white dress-like thing she uses as pajamas. He already knows she doesn't care when he does that, though for some reason he gets the impression she's supposed to, and as he does that he mentally compares her to the women in the magazine. She's a lot smaller than most of them, in most every sense of the word as it relates to female bodies, but he really can't imagine wanting her any other way.

When she climbs into bed next to him, he sees her glancing at the page he was looking at, some ad about adding volume to hair or something like that, and he catches the hurt in her face before she turns away. "What?" he asks. He has no idea why his looking at a magazine should bother her.

"What are you expecting to find in there?"

He shrugs and shoves the magazine into the bedside table. "Just trying to figure out why human ladies think they need all that stuff to be beautiful."

"Do they?"

"Dunno," he shrugs. "I don't know what they uh, what they look like without it. All I really know is um, is that you don't use any of that stuff and you're more beautiful than all of them."

He's not sure why, but he's pretty sure his saying that is why she lets him wrap his arm around her waist and pull her close. He breathes in the scent of her hair and stares apprehensively at the blurry outline of the table in front of her, heart in his throat, waiting for her to elbow him in the chest or push his arm down, but she does none of these things. After a long time she folds her hand very, very softly over his own, so gently that he almost can't feel it at all, but he does and that's what matters. He tightens his grip on her fingers and tightens his arm around her body, not sure what it is that's bothering her but trying to use his touch as reassurance, and it must have worked because soon after he can hear the soft sound of her nighttime breathing.

Things are much improved after that, with her no longer ignoring him quite so much, though even when she does it again it's not as bad as before. They have come to an unspoken agreement that they drop what they're doing at four o'clock and have a cup of tea. Well, Wheatley has a cup of tea; while she makes that for him he makes her a cup of hot chocolate. Then they sit together at the counter and spend a half hour drinking them, at first not speaking at all but doing so more often as time wears on. Wheatley looks forward to this part of the day even more now that she's joined him, and if the fact that she smiles more often is anything to go by, she looks forward to it as well. Though the whole experience was not too pleasant, Wheatley is glad that he went through it; after a few weeks she no longer goes back to work afterward and instead joins him in whatever it is he's doing. Sometimes he's watching television on the Internet, which is always funny to do with her because she becomes confused by the strangest things. When the time comes he starts supper, which he is almost as proficient at as he is with hair, for some reason. He keeps her away from the stove; for someone who's good at most everything, GLaDOS is a terrible cook. He teases her about it at every opportunity, of course, and she sighs and rolls her eyes and waves a knife in his general direction or a fork, on occasion, but she knows he means nothing by it and allows him to keep doing it. Afterwards they do the dishes, and if she's in the right mood he gets her to throw soap bubbles or goads her into a slapping match with the dish towels, and though both of those activities tend to sting a bit it's all quite worth it to hear her laugh. She sometimes goes off to work after that, with Wheatley going back to the computer and finding a crossword puzzle to do with his eyes squinted and his tongue between his teeth. If he's lucky she'll appear soon after and throw herself painfully into his lap, call him a moron and finish the puzzle within thirty seconds. He likes it when she does this because much of the time she lets him convince her to play some game online with him, which she always wins.

Wheatley's second favourite part of the day, however, remains that bit of the night just before he falls asleep. If she's having a good day she'll move a little differently when she undresses, which Wheatley admires contentedly, but even though she doesn't always do that she does always let him wrap himself around her. She doesn't always let him curl one leg around hers, but she says that's because his leg is heavy and it keeps her from sleeping. He accepts that without argument and instead focuses on holding her hand and enjoying the feeling he gets when he fits his body around hers.

Sometimes she's still difficult. Sometimes she elbows him in the chest instead of asking him nicely to get off her, and sometimes she says nothing to him for days on end. On occasion putting dishsoap in her hair only makes her angry, and now and then she gets upset when he jokes about her cooking. But no matter what he says or does and no matter how her day is going, she always joins him in the kitchen at four o'clock for tea time. And as long as that happens, everything will be just fine.

**Author's note**

**I'm sorry for writing yet another humanisation story.**

**My version of GLaDOS is not like most versions. Most of them are idealised, alluring young women with severe bobs. Mine is a smaller older woman with short hair. I made her that way because I think if she had a human body, it would have to be as little fuss as possible. As for the age, she is based off an old woman, after all, and what with GLaDOS's penchant to constantly work and her neuroticism, she'd age far before her time. So she doesn't like the magazine because she knows she's not especially beautiful and she's upset that Wheatley might find them more attractive than her. However, Wheatley doesn't have the mind of a human male, since he's still got the mindset of a core, and he's not hardwired to be attracted to appearance. She doesn't care that he watches her undress because she was not born human and therefore has no sense of modesty.**

**British people really can tell whether the milk was added first. **


End file.
